


How Could We Miss Someone As Dumb As This?

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Everybody Lives, Future Fic, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a litter box in their bathroom, made of deep, navy blue plastic that matched the towels, and another one tucked into the corner of the spare room.  An entire shelf in the kitchen cupboards had been designated for little tins of gourmet cat and kitten food— all of it natural, without fillers or byproducts, and more expensive than Stiles’ usual college diet.</p><p>So yeah, Peter may have accidentally sort of adopted five cats.  To be honest, Stiles didn’t really mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Could We Miss Someone As Dumb As This?

**Author's Note:**

> Mentioned: Canon typical violence, death, human sacrifices, animal euthanasia  
> Ignores as many canon deaths/departures as you want, and broad swaths of Season 4
> 
> Title from "The Love Cats" by The Cure

“Hey hey, I’m early!” Stiles wiggled his stubborn key, working it free of the goddamn sticky lock that apparently hadn’t gotten fixed yet. The strap of his backpack was starting to sag dangerously off his shoulder, making him hunch over to keep his tray of coffee steady.

Okay, so he was three days early, and yes, he was the idiot who’d decided that keeping that little detail a surprise would be romantic or some shit. At the very least, it would give them a couple of days of uninterrupted marathon sex before Stiles had to go see his dad, or Scott, or any of the Pack.

Since he’d been the one who’d kept his damn mouth shut, it wasn’t like he could get pissed about having to wedge himself and his luggage into a cab instead of getting ferried home from the airport in Peter’s cushy, climate controlled Mercedes. It would have been completely irrational to get mad at Peter and his stupid werewolf strength for not being around to carry Stiles’ bags up the six flights of stairs to their apartment, because of course the fucking elevators were temporarily out of commission.

Fine, yeah, Stiles was a bit miffed. Maybe edging toward homicidal. Mostly at himself, but angry masturbating wasn’t nearly as fun as angry sex. Picking a fight seemed like just the thing to perk him up.

“Peter! Little help would be nice, asshole!”

Finally yanking his key loose, Stiles hooked one foot around the massive duffle bag he’d dropped in the hallway. The bag, which contained the lion’s share of the sum-total of his life for the past nine months, weighed a fucking ton. He could feel all the muscles in his thigh protesting as he started to half-drag, half-kick it inside.

“Shut the door!” Peter’s voice was a roar, punched up with enough deep, lupine power to make a shiver steal up Stiles’ spine. The effect wasn’t the same through Skype, and they hadn’t had a real live face-to-face visit since Peter had flown out for Christmas. It was an instinctual reaction, tangled up with a whole bunch of learned responses— animalistic fear in the face of an apex predator, a sharp bolt of lust, and the weirdest, warmest flood of affection, all mixed together in a mass of embarrassing, happy Stiles feelings.

Or, it might have been that, if Peter had just pulled out the sexy wolf roar without the clear note of panic souring the whole thing.

Stiles looked up sharply, just in time to catch sight of the first tiny white blur shooting across the hardwood floor, and barrelling directly towards him. Or, more precisely, towards his ankles. The thing wasn’t even half as big as his shoe.

It brought friends, too. In a split second, there were three more little bullets following close on the heels of the first one. Stiles realised they were kittens at pretty much the exact moment that Peter came racing out of the bathroom, dripping wet and naked, except for the towel clenched precariously around his waist.

Stiles hadn’t even considered the possibility that Peter might be in the shower. The hot water pipes back at school made this rattly, ominous moan, and he’d sort of gotten used to that.

“The _door_ ,” Peter snarled again, eyes flashing electric blue, but it was far too late. There was a huge duffle bag in the way, and Stiles’ reflexes weren’t that good when he _wasn’t_ so thoroughly distracted by his wet and wolfy boyfriend. “For fucksake, Stiles!”

Peter’s bare feet slapped against the floorboards, leaving puddles, and Stiles actually had to leap out of the way to avoid getting checked into the doorframe when Peter shouldered past him. The two coffees, one with the triple espresso shots that Stiles deserved and the other with the extra whip and caramel drizzle that Peter insisted on, sloshed dangerously. Stiles set the tray down on the floor before trying to untangle himself from his bags so he could see what the hell Peter was doing.

As it turned out, Peter was genuinely wearing nothing but a skimpy blue towel and chasing down a quartet of wayward kittens. Stiles hadn’t passed out in the cab and gotten stuck in some sort of bizarre, jet-lagged fever dream.

“A little help would be nice, asshole,” Peter said, loud and sharp as a whip crack, while he bent to scoop up two squirmy kittens. His towel shifted lower, skimming the generous curve of his ass. “I’ve only got two hands.”

“Uh, yeah. Yep.” Questions could wait until after Peter wasn’t about to give their neighbours a free show, and maybe until he didn’t sound quite so close to a full-out, feral mauling. They’d never get the security deposit back if Peter painted the hallway with Stiles’ blood.

Dropping his backpack inside the apartment, Stiles caught a flash of orange out of the corner of his eye, and basically just dove for it. It was pure luck that he managed to catch the wriggly little furball as it darted along the baseboard. Immediately, what felt like a hundred needles punctured tenderest parts of his hands, digging furrows between his fingers and the thin skin of his inner wrist.

“Son of a _bitch_ —” To his great credit, he didn’t give into the instinct to drop the hateful hellbeast. Instead, he pulled it closer, pressing it against his chest and hoping that its claws weren’t big or sharp enough to penetrate two layers of shirts and his hoodie. He preferred to avoid losing a nipple. “Hey, I got one! And the little fucker got me back, too— shit, that stings.”

“Do _not_ drop him.”

“Nah, really? You don’t say—” Turning around, Stiles was temporarily rendered mute by the sight of Peter Hale, totally and completely nude, with three noisy kittens held securely in the cradle of his arms.

“Grab my towel,” Peter said, apparently much more languid about letting his junk air-out in the hall than he was about thwarting the great kitten escape. Stiles would have gone so far as to describe his walk back into the privacy of their apartment as a leisurely saunter.

He gave Stiles’ duffle a hard kick, sliding it inside ahead of him, then just stood there expectantly while the kittens in his clutches kept up their frustrated mewling. “Anytime today would be good, Stiles.”

The orange kitten seemed content to dig into Stiles’ hoodie, latching on with all four razor paws in its quest for blood, but he still kept one hand curled around it as he scrambled to gather up the damp towel. He slipped into the apartment on Peter’s heels, closing the door firmly behind them and turning the deadbolt to make extra certain.

“That was a stunning display of incompetence,” Peter said. “You couldn’t have been less helpful without resorting to active sabotage. Bravo.”

“Excuse you—” Stiles started to say, because fuck that, he hadn’t almost gotten his hand torn off so he could silently suffer through Peter chewing him a new one too. But when he whipped around, it immediately became apparent that Peter wasn’t even talking to him.

There was a big calico cat licking the lid of Peter’s coffee with its raspy pink tongue. Yuck. And also? _Rude_.

“Oh, dude, gross.” Peter hadn’t made any move to set his kittens down yet, but the door was safely shut and bolted, so Stiles didn’t feel especially worried about letting his new frenemy go. Prying the kitten off his torso, he set it down on the hardwood, only to have it immediately pounce on his backpack instead, chewing on the straps.

“You have the maternal instincts of a loaf of bread,” Peter said, apparently carrying on a conversation with the chubby cat, despite being completely ignored. He dropped into a squat, still naked, and released his kittens one by one. “Go torment your mother, brats. She deserves it. And that’s not for you, Buttercup; do you imagine cream is going to help get that baby weight off? Really?”

With a shockingly gentle swipe of his hand, Peter shooed the cat away from the coffees, and brought the tray with him when he stood back up. Robbed of her distracting treat, the cat let out a warbling meow, and turned unblinking golden-green eyes toward Stiles.

“ _Buttercup_?” The cat trilled again, while the kittens scattered, intent on investigating the luggage. Stiles was starting to panic, ever so slightly. This was too bizarre to be safe. This was some sort of negaverse, darkworld, mirror universe bullshit. All that was missing was the creepy Disney villain beard— Peter had his usual second-day scruff, nothing more.

The cat had a splotch of black on her white chin, though. That totally counted.

Peter shrugged, and snatched his towel out of Stiles’ lax fingers. “I didn’t name her. I’m going to put on pants.”

“ _Buttercup_ ,” Stiles repeated, just as strangled and squeaky as the first time. Peter tossed the towel over his shoulder, letting the flex of his bare ass punctuate his retreat toward the bedroom. He set the drinks on the coffee table as he passed, totally blasé.

“Welcome home, dear.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles waited all of fifteen seconds before trailing after Peter, abandoning his luggage to the mercy of the kittens. _The kittens_.

“Uh, honeybunch?” He decided to lead with sweetness, since he’d already wandered into bizarro-land. There was some sort of complex, multilevel, carpeted cat condo thing that Stiles had never seen before sitting beside their couch, _dear god_. “Quick question.”

Ducking into their bedroom, Stiles was momentarily distracted by the sight of Peter pulling on a pair of soft grey pyjama pants, _sans_ underwear.

“You remember that witch I told you about?”

Stiles blinked, tearing his attention away from Peter’s hips and the happy little trail of hair that disappeared down under his belly button. They were pretty much experts at phone sex and Skype sex by this point— they’d been making it work for three years of college already— but it still paled in comparison to having Peter close enough to taste, and their big, comfy bed only a couple steps away.

There was a wrinkled wad of fabric on the duvet, tucked up near the pillows, and it bore a suspicious resemblance to Stiles’ Black Widow t-shirt that had mysteriously gone missing sometime after Christmas. He remembered tossing it in the dirty laundry while Peter was visiting, and then hadn’t seen it since.

It was possible Peter had also headed back home after that visit with a couple fewer henleys than he’d arrived with, but that was neither here nor there.

“The witch,” Peter prompted again, with the most infuriatingly smug smirk spreading over his face. Stiles wanted to punch it off of him, or maybe a headbutt. Yeah, just sort of mash his face into Peter’s until the bastard stopped smirking and did something more productive with that fucking mouth, like enthusiastically worshipping Stiles’ body for the next four months.

“Witch? Which witch?” Beacon Hills was never completely quiet for long, but with the Nemeton mostly appeased since that big blow-up at the end of Stiles’ senior year of high school, the supernatural clusterfucks had dwindled to a few minor incidents here and there. While he was away at school, Stiles kept up with it mostly through conversations with Peter, and weirdly enough, through semi-regular texts with Derek and Cora. Scott might be big bad True Alpha dude, but while he was busy down at UC Davis, the Hales had taken on the _Protectors of Beacon Hills_ gig.

Stiles was pretty sure he was the only one who knew how damn giggly Peter could get after a good fight, without Scott around to enforce the McCall Pack policies of minimal violence, non-lethal force, sharing is caring, _ad nauseam_. Derek did his best to keep to the spirit of the hug-it-out approach, and keep Peter on a leash, but problems still tended to get sorted out a bit more efficiently without Scott’s puppydog eyes and Alpha voice asking _why they all can’t just be friends, c’mon guys_.

“Oh, was it the… Yeah, that was before Easter, right?” Stiles had some vague memories of the story— something about a seemingly harmless hedge witch coming to town, bad mojo about the new moon that fell between the last full moon of winter and the first of spring, and a couple of fresh babies snatched from their incubators. Mostly, Stiles remembered Peter whining about screaming, pooping infants, and how he’d never get the smell of sour milk out of his nose.

Stiles had gotten creative and very sticky on Skype with the goop from some Cadbury cream eggs, all in an attempt to cheer up his cranky, pouty snugglewolf. Between the orgasms and the sugar crash, he had zero memories of anything being mentioned about kittens.

Something butted against Stiles’ calf, and suddenly there was a fat calico cat walking figure-eights around his ankles.

Nope. He definitely would have remembered if Peter had said a single word about cats. Especially _five cats_ living in their apartment.

“Peter. Sugarpie.” Glancing from the cat, who was purring loudly, to the blankly innocent expression plastered over his boyfriend’s face, Stiles exhaled a long, deep sigh. “Is this a witch’s cat?”

“No,” Peter said, pulling another one of Stiles’ purloined t-shirts out of a drawer and tugging it over his head. This one was faded and thin, with _Jedi in the Streets, Sith in the Sheets_ stretched over Peter’s broad chest. “Or, technically yes, I suppose, since she’s your cat too. You don’t do nearly enough dancing naked in the woods to be a proper druid.”

“She’s my—” Buttercup took that opportunity to sit up on her haunches, and start batting at Stiles’s knee. As if she knew they were talking about her. Which, hey, _witch’s cat_. Who the fuck knew.

“She likes you,” Peter said, warm and pleased, as if he was _proud_ of Stiles for being likable. Forcefully ignoring the blissful rush that always came with being on the receiving end of Peter’s praise, no matter the situation, Stiles very purposefully did not reach down to pet the cat.

“Peter.” The cat made an inquisitive noise, more a chirp than a meow, and Stiles caved completely. His resolve crumbled at the speed of sound, and he bent down, scooping up her fuzzy witch-cat butt. Good god, she was so soft and squishy, and she immediately cuddled into the crook of his arm like a baby. This was _unfair_. “Peter, moon of my life, was Buttercup the familiar of that witch whose head you tore off right before Easter?”

“She may have been,” Peter allowed. He scrubbed the towel over his hair until it stuck up in short, damp curls, then dragged his hand back through to tame it down again. “I didn’t have a chance to ask for specifics before the whole decapitation thing, what with the impending infant sacrifices and all. Alan wasn’t sure either, which is why he insisted Buttercup couldn’t be adopted out, just in case she was infused with magic, or a vessel for part of the witch’s soul, or whatever. He was going to euthanize her.”

“Whoa, wait, hang the fuck on—” Stiles suddenly wasn’t entirely certain whether he wanted to drop the cat, or hug her closer. “Are you saying this cat could be some psycho baby-killing witch’s _horcrux_? Seriously?”

“That’s highly unlikely.” Tossing the towel in their hamper, Peter sidled up into Stiles’ space, giving Buttercup a scratch between her dual-coloured ears. “Choosing a living thing to permanently protect a fragment your soul would be idiotic, especially something as small and relatively defenseless as a housecat. The witch wasn’t the cleverest I’ve seen, but she didn’t seem like a complete moron.”

“Oh, totally, yeah. All the first class baddies switched to resurrection via teenage girls, didn't they? Much more dependable.” He’d never dream of being so flippant if Lydia was in earshot, or if any of their friends apart from Peter might hear him to be honest, but hindsight had granted Stiles significantly more pragmatism about the whole thing. If faced with a similar situation, where fucking up an innocent stranger might save him or his Pack, Stiles knew himself well enough to guarantee he'd have done pretty much the same. Hell, he’d have done worse.

Peter’s lip curled, not quite a full blown sneer. The fluffy, towel-dried hair sort of lessened the impact, but Stiles politely refrained from pointing that out.

“Resurrection via banshee, thank you very much. And it worked, didn't it?” When Stiles continued to look entirely unimpressed, Peter snapped his teeth, cleaving the air less than an inch from the upturned tip of Stiles' nose. “Come on, smartass, before the coffee gets cold.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles let himself be herded back out to the living room by the press of a broad hand on his lower back. When Peter abandoned him to wipe up the puddles from the shower incident, Stiles took the opportunity to kick off his sneakers, but he left his hoodie on when Buttercup showed no signs of wanting to be put down.

They settled on the couch with a bit of fumbling— Stiles was used to sprawling over Peter and being manhandled into a comfortable position, but now they had to consider Buttercup purring against Stiles’ chest. They didn’t even have the chance to reach for their coffees before the mewling started, as four kittens stumbled over and started scaling the upholstery, intent on climbing all over Peter, and by extension Stiles, like a jungle gym.

“Gimme,” Stiles said, stretching out the arm not wrapped around Buttercup, and making a grabby hand toward his coffee. Peter indulged him, which was only fair, considering that Stiles was the one covered in cats and flopped back between the vee of Peter’s legs, exactly where Peter had dragged him.

Peter didn’t even bother taking off the lid, or even wiping the cat-tongue residue off his own coffee before taking a drink. Stiles made a point of twisting around enough to wrinkle his nose at how freaking gross that was.

“The last time we had gyros from that place on Fifth,” Peter said. “You were literally dripping with redcap blood, like some community theatre production of _Carrie_. And I seem to remember you waiting just long enough to smear your hands against my equally bloody shirt before digging in. You’re not exactly a paragon of hygiene.”

“Cats lick their butts, dude.”

“I lick your butt, _dude_.” It should have been absolutely ridiculous, phrased like a schoolyard retort, but holy hell. The rush of every ounce of blood in Stiles’ body diverting to his dick was dizzying, even lying down. “In fact, I have every intention of licking it later tonight. Thoroughly.”

“Jesus—”

“I’m going to pin you down, spread you wide, and eat you out.” Peter shifted his free hand away from stroking kittens, in favour of dragging the pad of his thumb over Stiles’ bottom lip. His voice had dipped low, deep and resonate in the hot, narrowing space between them, and Stiles could feel the vibration of it shuddering through his bones. “I’m going to devour you, until you’re squirming, and sobbing for—”

“Oh my god!” Reaching back, Stiles clamped one hand over Peter’s mouth before either of them knew what the hell was going on. Peter’s eyes were glittering above the impromptu muzzle, with almost equal parts amusement and dark promise, but Stiles was currently covered in _kittens_ , damn it. “Not in front of the babies.”

“You weren’t this shy last summer.” Peter peeled Stiles’ hand away from his mouth, nipping at those long fingers for good measure. “When I had you bent over the railing of McCall’s back porch. And, don’t forget, you were the one who shoved your hands down my pants and dragged me out of that Pack meeting.”

The splinters Stiles got under his fingernails that day had stung like a bitch, but Liam couldn’t look either of them in the eye for weeks afterward. Kira had developed some kind of permanent blush whenever Stiles was within fifty feet of her, which was nine kinds of adorable. And Cora gave him a highfive that had nearly dislocated his shoulder, laughing herself to actual tears as she described the expressions on the rest of the Pack’s faces.

All in all, totally worth it.

“Shhh,” Stiles hushed him, wriggling his arm out of Peter’s grip. “Drink your coffee, you freak. I’m a desiccated husk after that goddamn flight, so bask in my glorious presence for a while before you get too nasty.”

“I haven’t touched you in months,” Peter said, but Stiles knew it wasn’t actually a complaint about the delayed sexy times. The urge for intimate contact wouldn’t be confined to getting down and dirty: there was an instinctual drive to stay close. Peter would be all over him, peppering him with touches, for at least a week straight.

Fingers threaded through Stiles’ hair, scraping lightly across his scalp in that way that invariably turned every one of his muscles to liquid. A quiet, rumbling noise started from somewhere far down in Peter’s chest; Stiles had a cat purring on his stomach, a werewolf purring at his back, and kittens stomping around everywhere in between. It was surprisingly awesome.

They were quiet for a few minutes, sipping their drinks and sinking farther into each other’s orbit again, swapping scents and sharing body heat. Stiles rubbed his finger against the bridge of Buttercup’s nose, where her fur felt only slightly rougher than velvet. The tip of her pink tongue was peeking out, and her eyes were half-mast in dopey bliss.

“Deaton was really going to straight up kill her?”

Peter hummed, plucking the dark grey kitten away from its attempts to clamber over Stiles’ cheek. He stretched out to set it on the nearby cat condo instead, and its siblings started to follow. “Yes. He was quite adamant about it, actually. Especially since she was pregnant at the time.”

“That’s fucked up.” With all the focus on birth and fertility— the newborn human sacrifices, the changing seasons and the moons, and timing the whole thing around Easter— the fact that the witch’s cat had been pregnant too was obviously significant. Stiles could think of at least a half-dozen alarmingly unpleasant spells off the top of his head that could tap into power like that.

But shit, the whole adamant-about-euthanasia thing was pretty cold, even for their resident sinister druidic vet and fulltime cryptic motherfucker.

“I persuaded him to reconsider,” Peter said silkily, and Stiles was too pleased by the outcome to worry about the details of what precisely that tone meant. He grinned, craning his head back to look up at his ridiculous snugglewolf without a hint of censure. Seriously, fuck Deaton for wanting to murder their cat. What a dick.

“Well, you can be very persuasive.”

Peter’s razor-edged smile widened, curling at one corner in a way that made the whole thing utterly filthy. “I can. Would you like me to persuade you, Stiles?”

“Absolutely. Later, once I feel less like death, I want you to persuade me for hours.” That earned him a lingering kiss on the lips, which Stiles immediately realised was the first since he’d gotten home. Between the jet-lag and the kitten escape attempt, he was totally off his game.

“C’mere,” he mumbled, hooking one hand around Peter’s collar to keep him close. It didn’t take much to coax another kiss, and Stiles chased the taste of caramel and cream over Peter’s tongue. “Mm, missed you.”

Buttercup shifted, making bread in the fabric of Stiles’ hoodie, and he smiled against Peter’s mouth.

 

* * *

 

“Ah— _Ow_! Fuck!” It wasn’t the first time Stiles had quite literally tried to scale Peter like a koala climbing a tree, with his arms braced behind that deliciously thick neck and his legs wrapped around Peter’s hips. Usually it was for sexier reasons than desperately trying to escape agony being inflicted on his bare feet, however.

“Jesus Christ, Stiles!” And, usually, Stiles managed to avoid kneeing Peter in the groin during this sort of full-body climb, but panic, surprise, and pain had led to some unfortunate flailing in this case.

“What the hell,” Peter said, while making a flimsy attempt to pry him off, but Stiles was having precisely none of that, clinging tighter. He dared to unlock one arm, flapping his hand down to indicate the floor. More specifically, to direct Peter’s attention to the tiny, furry limb studded with needle-sharp claws, currently snaking under their firmly closed bedroom door. The kitten was reaching out blindly, scratching the empty air, and probably seeking more of Stiles’ blood.

“He got me!” Hitching his hips higher, Stiles locked his ankles together over the swell of Peter’s ass. Then, to his absolute horror, three more grasping paws appeared along the threshold of the door, along with one whole _kitten’s head_ popping out like a freaking jack-in-the-box from hell. “Fuck! What the fuck is that? How did he— Don’t they have _bones_?”

The kitten in question let out a strident _meep_ , not quite what Stiles would term a proper meow, and then proceeded to wriggle its entire body into the room.

Apparently, kittens could slither under doors. Or at least, under this particular door, which Stiles had been well on his way to being ravaged against. That knowledge was equal parts annoying and creepy.

“You little shits,” Peter said, but his tone was far too indulgent for a dude who’d so recently been interrupted from sucking a hickey the size of a dinner plate onto the side of Stiles’ neck, and had subsequently taken a bony knee jab directly to the erection. Another head popped in under the door— the orange one this time— and Peter actually _laughed_.

“Dude.” Stiles was starting to reevaluate his decision to dismiss the mirror universe theory. “I haven’t touched your dick in months, and we’re being cockblocked by cats, here.”

Peter shrugged, bending down to scoop up the white kitten, without any sign of strain at all. Bearing Stiles’ entire body weight didn’t bother him in the slightest, and that nonchalant show of preternatural strength was something that Stiles’ dick found tremendously interesting.

“They’re less obnoxious than your idiot friends were, right after you told them we were seeing each other. The only way I ever want Scott McCall constantly underfoot like that again is the day I inevitably snap and have to bury him in an unmarked grave.”

“This is your weekly reminder that nobody’s killing Scott on my watch, thank you.” Stiles sighed, glaring at the kitten now cradled in Peter’s hand. “Don’t these little bastards have a whole fancy room of their own? I distinctly remember being shown a room, formerly a very masculine and arousing study-slash-lair for your plotting and my gaming, and miscellaneous dabbling of the magical variety, which instead now looks uncannily like aisle four at PetCo exploded. A pretty extreme change of decor, and one which I was not consulted about, I might add—”

“We need a bigger apartment,” Peter said matter-of-factly, rubbing the kitten against his cheek. Stiles blinked, coming to terms with the reality that his thirty-eight year old boyfriend was scent marking cats now, for the love of _god_.

“We need a bigger apartment,” Stiles repeated, more like a question, and Peter hummed at him, still busy nuzzling the kitten.

Peter walked them casually over to the bed as if Stiles weighed nothing at all. He settled himself against the headboard, with Stiles in his lap, and the kitten on his chest. There was a chorus of reedy meowing, and soon enough three more kittens were clawing their way up the sides of the bedspread.

It would have been so much cuter if Stiles wasn’t dizzy with about four months worth of sexual frustration, and seriously keyed up after over an hour of lazy, coffee-flavoured makeouts on the couch.

“We can make do for a little while,” Peter said, finally turning most of his attention back to Stiles. There was not a single iota of complaint when that attention turned out to be a hand sliding down the back of Stiles’ unbuttoned jeans, greedily palming his ass through his briefs. “But there’s certainly not enough space for five grown cats here. We’ll need to find a new place before you head back to school.”

“Right.” There were a lot of different stimuli going on at once: the fragile little kittens rolling around the mattress, the slow drag of his underwear being pushed down, and the delicious pressure of Stiles’ half-hard dick rubbing up on Peter’s abs, just to name a few. With all that, it took a couple of seconds for the new thread of the conversation to penetrate the fog.

“Wait, what?” Stiles took a shuddering breath, forcing himself to focus on something other than Peter’s fingers sneaking into the crack of his ass, or the kitten trying to clamber clumsily over his calf. “Peter, you— You want to get an apartment together? With me?”

“No, with one of the other smartass little twinks I keep around to eat my food, steal all the blankets, and clutter up my closet with their ridiculous hoodies.” Peter tilted his head. “We’ve had an apartment together for three years, genius. I don’t see how this is surprising.”

“We didn’t— There’s a _difference_.” Sitting back, Stiles ran both hands through his hair, clutching at his crown and staring up at the ceiling. He had a bad feeling that saying this out loud was going to sound painfully stupid. “We never _got_ an apartment together. My stuff sort of migrated over here, and when you never told me to stop, I assumed you were cool with me squatting, or whatever. But this was your place. Shit, man, we never even talked about me moving in, I just did it, and then waited for you to notice my toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.”

“It was my place,” Peter agreed, speaking with exaggerated care, as if Stiles was the one being weird here. “But you know, the more I think about it, I seem to remember something about an Xbox appearing in my living room one day, out of the blue. Along with those disgusting pizza bagels in the freezer, and your name on the lease.”

“There’s a difference,” Stiles said again, taking a deep breath through his nose. He swiveled his head back down, fixing Peter with a serious stare, and snatched the closest kitten he could grab. Snuggling a tiny, purring ball of fluff gave something to do with his hands other than fidgeting. “This feels like a big deal, okay?”

“You get so hung up about the strangest things.” It wasn’t the kindest or most understanding answer, but it did come with Peter’s mouth latching on to the delicate skin under Stiles’ chin, nipping and kissing a trail up to catch his lips. Sandwiched between them, the grey kitten squirmed to get loose, and Stiles set her down.

“Stiles.” Peter pulled back just far enough to see each other clearly, then reached up and cupped Stiles’ jaw in one hand. “We live together. Now we’re getting a bigger apartment together, or maybe a house, since you’re so hellbent on moving back to Beacon Hills after you finish school. Surprise.”

A house. He and Peter were getting a _house_ together.

His arms had fallen, hanging limp at his sides, and one of the kittens took the opportunity to start rubbing up against his wrist, smearing his skin with her wet nose and the softness of her plush orange fur.

“Alright.” He swallowed, then tried again. His voice didn’t break the second time. “Alright, yeah. A house. Together. We can do that. That’s a thing we can do. Yeah. You, and me, and our five cats.”

“Sweetheart, you’ve made me the happiest werewolf in the world,” Peter said, but his deadpan delivery didn’t quite match the slow spread of his smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Ridiculous Sentence Prompt: “I may have accidentally sort of adopted five cats.”


End file.
